Fire at Midnight

by Olivia Drake

  “Unworthy?” His eyebrows winged upward. “Norah, I’m the one who had all the affairs, who tried to prove to society that no woman could hurt me. I’m the one with the reputation to live down, not you. You’re completely innocent.”

  “No, I’m not. All those years, I should have guessed something was terribly wrong in my marriage. I should have left Maurice.”

  Darkness descended over Kit’s face. He touched the blanket covering her knees. “A lady is told nothing but to close her eyes and endure her husband’s touch. What he did to you was vile and deceitful. But it certainly wasn’t your fault.”

  His disgust toward Maurice put her on the defensive. “My mind knows that. But inside I feel responsible somehow.”

  “How so? You were a convent-bred orphan who couldn’t have known better.”

  “He didn’t...come to me so very often. Sometimes months went by, as if he were trying not to desire me that way. The next day he always brought me a gift, a pair of earrings or some other trinket from the shop. I thought—”

  “You’re making excuses for him.”

  “Don’t interrupt me.” Her voice snagged on the lump in her throat. She swallowed. “I thought his gifts were a man’s way of buying his wife’s affections. But now I can see he must have been trying to assuage his own guilt.”

  “Any shame he might have felt didn’t justify his actions.”

  “I know that now. But if I hadn’t been so horribly naïve, perhaps...”

  “Perhaps what? You could have seduced him into making love to you the normal way?”

  “Yes,” she whispered on an agonized breath.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to fathom Maurice’s desire to mate with another male. Did he seek a sense of oneness that he had failed to find in his marriage? Who was that faceless other man? Jerome? Her intellect mulled over the possibility; her heart rejected it outright. What of Maurice’s other friends? She couldn’t recall any other man he had paid particular attention to.

  Kit took her hand and rubbed the back. Though his strokes were gentle, she could sense his latent anger. She opened her eyes to his intent frown.

  “Norah, don’t torture yourself. Men like Maurice seldom feel desire for any woman. Not even for a woman as beautiful and loving as you.”

  She wanted to believe Kit. She ached to sink into the purity of his affections. Reluctantly drawing her hand free, she traced the cheery plaid of the lap blanket. “If I could hate him, it might be easier. But in some ways he was a kind husband—”

  “So kind he denied you the joy of true intimacy.”

  “Please, just listen.” She cast about for a way to make Kit see the man she had lived with for nine years, the man she was only now beginning to understand and pity. “Maurice encouraged me to design jewelry when most husbands would have forbidden their wives to engage in commerce.”

  Kit shook his head. “It’s no wonder he gave you so much liberty. He claimed credit for your work.”

  “But he left the shop to me. He didn’t have to do that. I think it was his form of repayment for the pain he’d put me through.”

  “Oh, spare me the justifications. He left you with a stack of debts.” Kit shot to his feet and snatched up the fire iron. With an irate jab, he stirred the coals. The flames licked high, radiating warmth throughout the room. “Damn! I can’t understand how you can still love a man like him.”

  His anguished assertion surprised her. “I don’t love him. I don’t think I ever did.”

  “Then why are you so quick to jump to his defense?”

  She shook her head. “Because I was fond of him in a way. Odd as it might seem, we were accustomed to each other...outside the bedroom, at least.”

  “Then it must be St. Claire.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You love St. Claire. He owns so much of your loyalty that you’ve nothing left for me.”

  His blind aversion to Jerome exasperated her. “What utter nonsense. How many times must I tell you, he’s only a friend!”

  “Well. He certainly wants to marry you.” Kit let the fire iron clatter back into its stand. “Maybe so much that he dressed himself like a woman and murdered your husband.”

  A blaze of emotion chased away the chill Norah had felt earlier. She threw back the blanket and surged to her feet. “Just a few minutes ago, you implied they were lovers. Make up your mind, for pity’s sake.”

  “Maybe you would prefer to marry him, too.” Kit spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. “After all, you registered here as Mrs. St. Claire.”

  Suddenly her own pain dissipated like a sea mist clearing to bright sunshine. All at once she understood the hurt behind his resentment, the vulnerability concealed deep inside the strong, outwardly assured man. Crossing to him, she took his arm. “Oh Kit, please don’t be jealous. There’s no need.”

  “I wish I shared your confidence.”

  “You can.” Conscious of the hard muscles beneath his sleeve, she lowered her voice to a murmur. “Despite all that’s come to light, one fact hasn’t changed. I love you.”

  Intensity lit his handsome face. “Then for God’s sake, marry me.”

  Her pulse pounded with slow thuds of longing. Surely he hadn’t pondered all the ramifications of wedding a commoner, the widow of a murdered man. She walked to the window. The waves curled up to shore, then retreated again, reminding her of the push-pull feelings that plagued her.

  Turning, Norah held tight to the sill. “I do want to be your wife,” she admitted. “But I can’t bind you to a prolonged engagement while I complete my two years of mourning—”

  “Forget convention. I want to live with you now.”

  She shook her head. “Consider the scandal we’d cause. Even the Queen would condemn us. She doesn’t believe a widow should ever remarry, let alone after only a few months.”

  “Leave Her Majesty to me.”

  His confidence beckoned like a safe harbor to her battered spirits. “What about the license, then? No clergyman would agree to marry us so quickly.”

  “My family has ties to the Archbishop of Canterbury. For years, he’s been urging my father to settle me down with a wife. So you see, the highest prelate in England might even dance a jig at our wedding.”

  Keeping a rigid rein on her ardent emotions, she looked out the window again and groped for the courage to voice her greatest fear. “This is happening too fast. What if you change your mind later? What if you decide you’ve made a terrible mistake?”

  “I won’t, Norah.”

  The conviction in his voice gratified her. The rocky beach, the lowering clouds, took on the blurry aspect of a rain-washed window. Norah grasped the fringes of her shawl. She wanted so badly to be a permanent part of his tomorrows that she couldn’t stem the flow of tears.

  The tread of his footsteps approached. From directly behind her, he murmured, “Have you started your monthly courses yet?”

  She numbly shook her head. The chance of bearing his baby made her smile through her tears. It had buoyed her spirits on the train ride to Portsmouth, and in the solitary days since then.

  His arms circled her from behind and his palms settled warmly over her abdomen. “You aren’t barren, Norah. You might already hold our child in your womb.”

  Her breath emerged on a wisp of yearning. “A baby would be a gift from heaven.”

  “It would also be a bastard if you persist in denying me.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Then trust me, for God’s sake. I helped your orphan boys. I took tea with Ivy and listened to Winnifred complain. I tidied the muddle in your account books. I protected you after someone pushed you down a flight of stairs. Do you truly think my feelings for you are shallow? My God, I love you more each day.”

  She tilted her head back against his chest. Her hands covered his, and she felt the crispness of his hairs, the tempered steel of his bones, the hands of an equal and worthy mate. A man capable of fidelity. The one man who loved her with all his heart. The
emptiness inside her suddenly overflowed, rinsing away the uncertainties, cleansing her of doubts, until she felt pure and radiant, and strong enough to endure any opposition.

  In that moment she let herself hope again. She let herself dream. She let herself believe.

  Turning in his arms, she looked into his midnight eyes, into the rakishly attractive features of the man who had become the center stone of her life. “Yes, then. I’m ready to be your wife, Kit. Whenever, wherever you like.”

  His chest lifted, then he released a breath. A smile tilted his mouth. His fingertips traced designs over the side of her neck, sparking delicious chills over her skin. “Then may I propose we get straight to the task of ensuring an heir?”

  She slipped her fingers between the silver studs on his shirt and found warm flesh and a forest of hair. “So long as you understand that our first might be a daughter instead.”

  He kissed away the tears on her cheeks. “I’d be delighted to commission a few of each.”

  “Just not all at once, please.”

  Chuckling, he hugged her tight. “God forbid. As master of the family, I demand the right to create each new life, one by one.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Happiness bubbled like champagne through her veins. Yielding to Kit meant not the forfeit of her freedom, but the procurement of his devotion. Between leisurely kisses and liberal caresses, they undressed each other with total disregard for modesty. In bed, his lovemaking engaged her in a celebration of sweetness, a sampling of tastes and scents and tactile sensations. By degrees their passion expanded into the cadence of rich emotion, and they came together in a rush of unbounded pleasure.

  Their mutual cries of delight blended with the muted crash of surf outside and the snapping of the fire inside. The aftermath left Norah flushed with satisfaction, rejoicing in their joining, body and soul.

  Kit lifted himself on his elbows. The glint of gold in his eyes reflected a tortured intensity. He touched her cheek. “You’re precious to me, Norah. So very precious. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

  “You won’t,” she murmured. “I’m here for you, always.”

  He slowly shook his head. “There’s a murderer on the loose. You’re going back to my parents’ estate, where you’ll be safe. Then I’ll return to London and work with the police. With this new lead, I have more avenues to explore—”

  “No.” Alarm invaded her lassitude. She pushed up against the pillows. “Kit, I won’t be put away like...like a ruby kept in a vault and brought out to admire every now and then. I have work to do, a shop to watch over, a royal commission to win.”

  “I’ll handle matters. We can’t take a chance with your life.” His large hand covered her belly. “Or with the life of our unborn child.”

  For an instant his argument swayed her. Then in a flash of irritation she recognized what he was doing. “We don’t know yet that I’m pregnant, so stop playing on my emotions. I’ll be perfectly safe in your house. And elsewhere, I’ll stay close to you.”

  “I won’t let you put yourself in danger—”

  “And what if the killer is never found? Will we live apart forever?” She took his face in her palms and welcomed the scratch of stubble against her skin. “Now that we’ve found each other, Kit, I want to be with you. I want to see you when we go to sleep at night and awaken with you each morning. I want us to share every precious minute of every day.”

  His warm hand drifted over her bare thigh. He compressed his lips; then she saw his capitulation in the gradual easing of his tight expression, in the wry quirk of one black eyebrow. “Now who’s playing on emotions?” he asked.

  He bent and kissed her knee, and the simple gesture increased the wealth of love inside her. She took a tremulous breath. “I can’t leave the island until I see the maharaja. Which means we may have to spend a few days here.”

  “A honeymoon before the wedding?” Kit drawled. “Now there’s an appealing idea, partner.”

  They made love again, a slow delicious coupling that left Norah gasping with joy. And yet as they lay together afterward, she could sense his disquiet in the moody quality of his gaze, in the tautness of his embrace. He was afraid for her. The same fear nipped at the edges of her happiness, too.

  Out of the darkness of memory rushed a black figure. She relived the hard push, the long tumble down the stairs...

  Norah shook off the sticky cobwebs of horror. Danger lurked only as a distant nightmare, she assured herself. For now she had the security of Kit’s love. She would seize the rare fortune that had brought them to a secluded island off the southern coast of England.

  Wriggling closer to Kit, she breathed in his appealing scent and settled her hand on his flat stomach. Let the world pass them by. For a time at least, she would devote herself to dispelling his anxiety and arousing his ardor.

  Seven days later, in an old aristocratic mansion near Cowes, she and Kit followed a white-robed abdur up a graceful flight of stairs.

  “Ten minutes,” she whispered, clinging to Kit’s arm. “I came here every day for over a week, and then you give your name and the maharaja agrees to see us within ten minutes. It isn’t fair.”

  Norah spoke teasingly, but he detected an undercurrent of annoyance. He felt defensive and amused all at once. “I tried to warn you,” he murmured. “The Indians are even more patriarchal than we English. So please let me do the talking.”

  Norah snorted, then fell silent. He knew every nuance of her mind, every inch of her creamy flesh, yet he felt powerless to ease her resentment. The past week reminded him of nirvana, the Hindu version of heaven: long walks on the blustery beach, leisurely picnics in sheltered coves, the cherished perfection of their lovemaking.

  Stolen moments, Kit thought. He could distract her no longer from her quest for the fabled diamond that was linked in some inexplicable way to the mystery of Maurice Rutherford’s death.

  They entered a dimly lit boudoir. Here, the country manor had been transformed into an exotic palace. Silks of scarlet and saffron draped the walls and concealed the windows. Sandalwood incense drifted from smoking brass braziers. Pagan statuary abounded, from globe-breasted goddesses to impish boy-gods.

  Kit felt the instinctive tightening of revulsion, but this time he also experienced a stirring of curiosity and interest. He was suddenly attracted to the notion of learning about the exotic land of his birth. The land of his mother’s people.

  I thank God that your father once loved a Hindu woman named Shivina.

  Norah’s fervent words shone like bright stars in his mind. All the slurs and whispers that had infuriated him in the past no longer mattered so much. Even the memory of Emma Woodfern’s rejection had lost its power to hurt because now he knew her for what she was, a petty bigot too blind to see the goodness within him. Norah’s unconditional acceptance of him enveloped his soul in healing splendor.

  Today he had his chance to help her.

  In the soft light of the torches, her lovely features were drawn with anxiety. She had shed the drab black of full mourning in favor of a pale violet that complemented her fine complexion. She clung tightly to his arm, and he covered her hand with his, but she was looking toward the far end of the chamber, to the diminutive occupant of a gold throne.

  They walked forward until they stood before the man who could cause her to win or lose the most important sale of her career.

  The Maharaja of Rampur had a wizened face resembling that of the pet monkey perched on the arm of the throne and grooming its long tail. Cloth of gold swathed the ruler’s spry, aging body. Adorning his great white turban was a supeche in the form of a peacock holding a rope of enormous pearls in its beak. An emerald the size of a dove’s egg ornamented his wrist.

  Reaching deep into his boyhood memory, Kit folded his palms together and bowed. “Namaste, Your Highness.”

  “We may speak your own tongue with thanks to the British nanny of my youth.” The maharaja looked Kit up and down. “Indeed you are the
son of Coleridge-sahib. He took my photograph once, many years ago.”

  “Yes, he told me so.”

  “Yet it is rumored that the blood of my people also flows in your veins.”

  “My mother once graced the court of Bahadur Shah. She was called Shivina.” Saying her name aloud felt good and right, like the lifting of a years-old darkness. He brought Norah forward. “I would like you to meet my intended bride, Norah Rutherford.”

  She sank into a deep curtsy, her violet skirts billowing around her. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Highness. I’ve waited many days for this moment.”

  A gleam of humor lit his eyes. “Had I known of your great beauty, I would have welcomed you sooner.”

  He clapped his hands. A regiment of servants glided in, bearing trays of sweetmeats and a huge, ornate silver tea service. Norah and Kit took seats on a bank of colorful pillows.

  “The court of Bahadur Shah,” said the maharaja, stroking his beringed hand over the back of the monkey. “I visited there once, before the great mutiny. But alas, I cannot remember a woman of your mother’s name.”

  “More than thirty years ago, she was wed to a court scribe.” Kit searched his memory for the story his stepmother, Sarah, had told him so many times, the story he had repressed since boyhood. “When Shivina’s husband died, my father saved her from burning herself on the funeral pyre.”

  “Ah, the ancient custom of suttee.” The maharaja shook his head. “Indeed the British raj brought modem progress to India.”

  “Will you tell me more?” Kit asked. “I would like to hear about life at the court where my mother once lived.”

  “Gladly.” The maharaja spoke eloquently of cock fights and tiger hunts, of nightingales cooing in the palace garden beside the Jumna River, of the elephants which carried Bahadur Shah and his royal entourage on parade through the streets of Delhi. He described the ancient palace with its many courtyards and high turrets, the kingdom of past glory ruled by an aging monarch who had become a pensioner of the British raj.

  For the first time, Kit let himself picture his mother, her slim dark beauty modestly veiled, gliding through the antiquated stone corridors. Imagining her as a flesh-and-blood woman made him feel both proud and ashamed. For so many years he had been a bigot, too. He had refused to see Shivina as a real woman. It had been easier to curse a shadow figure for the legacy of his Hindu blood. But now he had the chance to make up for past mistakes. He vowed to ask his father and stepmother to share more of their memories of Shivina. Perhaps someday he would even travel to India and go to the places described by the maharaja.